Borrowed Time
by Arhel
Summary: One possible road to saving the galaxy. AU, character death.
1. Freedom

_Note: Really Bioware's own fault for going on and on about how you can die if you screw things up in the second game. And one assumes the third, too. No ME2 characters since __there's not much information. Sections in chronological order. Random alien culture/biology bits not from the game were made up._

* * *

**I. Freedom**

Discipline and control ruled Kaidan's life, and it was discipline alone that kept him moving despite the odds.

He forced himself to hold position as enemy fire pounded into his shields. The majority of the shots were absorbed by the barrier, but there were already fractures in his armor where some had gotten through.

The pistol in his hands was a pitiful sight compared to the pulse rifles of the geth, but it made no difference to the power of Kaidan's biotics.

It was the same power that had broken Vyrnnus' neck and driven Rahna away from him.

The power that he had to keep carefully held in check every moment, paying for it in headaches, pain, and sleepless nights.

The power that had saved his life, and the lives of his crewmates, time and time again.

Another geth fell, armor and synthetic tissue crumpling beneath sudden weight. Sharp pain in his abdomen told him he'd been hit, but he forced it down and concentrated on his assault. For the first time in years Kaidan didn't need to hold back, didn't need to worry about the consequences for himself or his opponents. There wouldn't be a headache tomorrow, and…

And he was, still, in control. It was no longer the wild reflex of a frightened teenager, but the carefully honed strength of an adult, that he was finally free to unleash against a worthy enemy, for a worthy cause.

Despite the pain, the threat of failure, and knowledge of what would happen anyway if he succeeded, for an exhilarating moment Kaidan felt like a kid again – a kid looking up at the stars, thinking about the adventures in the books and movies. Living those adventures.

As the last geth fell, he wondered for a moment if they, too, could be someday more than weapons, and chuckled. _Some sentimental moron you are, Alenko, feeling sorry for a flashlight on legs..._

But if there was anybody who could figure it out, it would be the commander and the crew of the finest ship the Alliance ever commissioned.

Because---

Kaidan smiled as a glint of light in the corner of his eye signaled the Normandy finally taking flight just as the timer reached zero.


	2. Homecoming

**II. Homecoming**

With a shuddering heave, the final links connecting the mid-section of the massive, ancient ship disengaged. Bulkheads slammed down across the gap, sealing the divide. The engines on the forward fins, designed for just such an emergency, fired into life and tore the newly independent vessel free with a stomach-wrenching lurch.

As those engines bore the little shuttle out of the gravity well, the rest of the stricken ship began to slowly drift away, dragged down by the dull, dead weight of the broken Reaper that still clung to its side like a monstrous parasite.

Shepard stared at the old comm screen, the bulk of the dying ship painfully visible in the viewport behind it even as their shuttle raced towards freedom, and tried to find something to say. She was interrupted by the familiar hiss of clasps released from combat armor.

"Tali! Wait, your suit---"

"What does it matter now? I wanted to see you, just once, with my own eyes." The engineer shrugged. "I guess this will have to be good enough."

Behind her, dozens of lights turned towards the screen, almost blinding Shepard before her eyes could adjust. The geth were turning towards their savior, attention fixed upon the face of the first living, breathing quarian to stand before them, unafraid, since their awakening centuries ago. The first quarian to acknowledge their rights as equals, the first to attempt to heal the rift with their makers.

Amidst the silent circle of watchers, Tali'Zorah nar Lenya lifted her mask, letting unfiltered air touch her skin for the first and last time. Her stance spoke of trepidation and uncertainty as she turned back towards the screen, and it was long moments before she raised her head to meet Shepard's eyes.

The audio was gone now, a fizzle of static across the speakers. Shepard certainly didn't know enough about quarian voice to pick out the words from movement alone, but the question was clear enough. Over their long association she had learned to read _this_ quarian's body language and moods, both human and not: a thousand little differences, a hundred little things the same.

Even though it wouldn't matter to the girl in the monitor, Shepard was proud that she managed to keep her voice steady as she carefully enunciated her words, knowing that the image was still clear enough to read the lip movements.

"You're beautiful, Tali."


	3. Farewell

**III. Farewell**

It wasn't supposed to end this way.

Shepard never prided herself on an overactive imagination, but when she'd been given the task of evaluating Garrus Vakarian's Spectre candidacy despite – because of – their shared history, she couldn't help the image that rose to her mind.

It would be after things settled down a bit, of course, and probably in the shiny new Council hall. They'd ask her the reasons for her recommendation, and she'd say something along the lines of, "Yes, your honors, he did indeed help me save the galaxy. Twice." She'd hear that little trill-snort of startlement from behind her shoulder at her flippancy, and then the deep, subtle rumbling that passed for embarrassment for a turian as she launched into her full and honest report, credit and blame exactly where it was due.

There'd be the short induction ceremony, a formality that he would observe with every ounce of his usual polite efficiency. Instead of the resentful stares and nervous appraisals that had greeted her own induction, the humans he helped save would be cheering just as hard as any turian.

And that would be that, and they'd go have a drink to celebrate – carefully labeling the glasses, of course – and commiserate over the inevitable talk with his father.

It would have been neat, symmetrical, and appropriate – the honor and burdens of a Spectre passed from Nihlus to her, and then back to one of his own people. To a man who could look past the differences of culture and shape and bridge the gap between old foes, as Nihlus had attempted and Saren could not.

_This will be the first of several missions together._

_Good-bye, Shepard. Thank you._

The future she had imagined didn't contain the twisted hulks of reaper constructs or the exhausted packs of medi-gel strewn across the floor. It certainly didn't contain the smell of charred flesh and sticky, blue blood that soaked through shattered armor, matting the soft, downy crest beneath.

_I'm sorry Commander, I'll have to catch up with you later_, he'd whispered, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Perhaps turians believed in some kind of afterlife. She'd never thought to ask, but the quiet conviction in those final words made her think that maybe a little mysticism wouldn't be so bad after all.

Shepard rose to her feet and began to march purposefully down the luminescent corridor, the knowledge and memories of an entire lost race guiding her steps.

He wouldn't have very long to wait.


	4. History

**IV. History**

Military regs were military regs. Even after integration into the greater galactic community and numerous exchanges of personnel and technology with their neighbors, the Systems Alliance navy still put quite a bit of stock in its traditional formalities.

On this day, however, the crew of the _SSV Aconcagua_ were allowed to cut a little slack, if only to make up for being stuck in deep space operations in the back end of nowhere on a major public holiday.

From the elevated vantage point of her own cabin – she'd insisted on this one, instead of a better-protected one deeper inside the ship – the commander of the dreadnought examined the festive preparations below.

The big ceremony would be on Arcturus Station, of course, but the men and women of the _Aconcagua_ were doing a damn fine job of making sure the local celebration invoked the same solemnity, even up to the miniature confectionary replica of the Peace Monument itself that Chief Powell had somehow managed to construct out of standard shipboard rations.

She knew the monument by heart, could trace every contour of its smooth, slick form. It was the same ship she had served on when it fought the Reaper vanguard, from even before the rest of the galaxy knew it was at war.

The _Normandy_ was instrumental in saving the galaxy and a powerful symbol of unity for both humans and turians alike. New generations who had not been born under the shadow of the First Contact War mingled freely with their erstwhile enemies, and it wouldn't be much longer until it all faded into textbook past.

A past where General Williams of Shanxi garrison was a footnote, while his granddaughter's name was respected across hundreds of worlds as a hero of the Reaper War.

It sometimes still rankled that granddad had tried so hard to do the right thing and been rewarded with disgrace and ignominy, while she, who had simply been in the right place at the right time, had gotten recognition that she probably didn't deserve.

The heap of survivor's guilt didn't help, either. The photographs on her desk stared back at her. One of them was a clear family photo, from when dad was still alive and the kids still… well, kids. The other was a lopsided snapshot from one of the _Normandy's_ security cameras. On a race against time to save the galaxy, nobody had really thought to take pictures, so it was the best she had.

Some of the old family and friends were still out there, and others were with God now. All she could do was hope that her commander had been right, that there was a place in the world where she could make a difference. That even though she didn't always feel up to the job, she could still do right by them.

Rear Admiral Ashley Williams raised her glass, gazing out at the stars to a place long ago and far away.

"There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail..."


	5. Family

**V. Family**

Despite their restored status, krogans were still viewed by most Citadel races with discomfort, and visitors to their colonies usually elected to hire more diplomatic people to do their talking for them.

This venture was no different, though Nelyna had to suppress a tinge of excitement at finally being able to visit Tuchanka itself. Her salarian client, on the other hand, was nervous, and understandably so, given the history between the two races.

The clan who was to receive them, according to her reports, was one of the most powerful on Tuchanka, and had for years been the most liberal-minded of the krogan homeworld factions, the first to offer military support to the Council since the Rebellions. Krogan organization being what it was, she had no further information on what it was that made this clan so cooperative, but it was as good a place to start as any.

Open-minded or not, however, getting tired of waiting and barging into one of their meeting halls still probably wasn't one of the wisest things for her client to have done.

Dozens of eyes were fixed on them, freezing the salarian businessman in his tracks. Nelyna knew she would have to be very careful of her movements and speech in the next few moments; while actual physical harm was unlikely, being summarily thrown off the planet was not out of the question.

Before anything more could happen, however, someone emerged from behind the crowd. The newcomer was old, the hardened crest on his forehead cracked and dry and his skin dark and wrinkled with age. He walked with a slight limp, but was obviously comfortable moving in his heavy armor. The other krogan parted for this visitor, and one or two even inclined their heads in respect.

Krogan rarely treated each other – or other species, for that matter – with any amount of reverence. The way the crowd parted for this particular krogan was indication enough of his status, even if she had not been able to decipher the emblems he wore. Warrior. Overlord. Patriarch. A survivor from before the cure, this krogan was the founder of the clan.

"If you will allow me?" Remembering the lessons of etiquette learned from Sha'ira, Nelyna smoothly interposed herself between the patriarch and her client, her words soft but firm, a slight incline to her head suggesting apology at the interruption… and her intent to do the speaking.

The krogan watched her, red eyes narrowed in appraisal, but said nothing. Now that she was closer, she could see the trace of old, diagonal scars across the right side of his face, and for a moment a hint of familiarity crossed her mind. But even asari did not remember all of the people they had seen over the years, so she let it slide and focused on the task at hand.

"Sir, on the behalf of my client, I would like to discuss a potential business proposal."

"Is that so?"

The ancient krogan warrior stared at her for a moment, his scarred face inches from her own. Nelyna held her ground.

And then the tension broke, as he roared with laughter. "A girl with some spine, I like that!" With a wave of his hand, he gestured to his clan to back down, and the tension drained out of the room as the rest of the krogan relaxed and began to disperse.

"Well, out with it. Name's Wrex. What do you want, then?"


	6. Legend

**VI. Legend**

Almost no one called her by her clan name anymore. The scientists she supervised merely addressed her as "ma'am". Or, if they were feeling particularly awed by her age and credentials, "Lady Liara".

She'd gotten used to it, though it still sometimes felt as though the woman they wanted to talk to was someone else. Someone regal and graceful like her mother, not a shy archaeologist who kept tripping over her own tongue. Whenever she had to attend panels and social events as part of her job, she always felt like hiding in a corner until it was over, to save herself the embarrassment.

Or wait until someone asked about the actual research itself, instead of pleasantries about the food or local weather. If there was one thing that hadn't changed from the old days of scuttling around Prothean ruins, it was the passion for her work. Liara could talk about Prothean technology until her audience fell asleep, although she suspected that probably wasn't something to be proud of.

The new facility on Ilos was so different from her musty, self-funded dig sites. Backed by the full support of the Council, she had access to any equipment technology could provide, and scholars from across the galaxy competed with each other to be allowed time to work on-site.

In the days before the War there had been protestors who claimed that curiosity into these ancient secrets would be their downfall. Ironically, those same protestors had quietly disappeared when lack of curiosity, particularly about the Citadel and the Mass Relays, had nearly proven fatal for the entire galactic community.

Only part of the vast Prothean complexes had been unearthed and restored – the most well-preserved of the ancient structures were the Archives around the relay that linked back to the Citadel, and reverse engineering had been successful in turning it into a two-way gate, the new hub of travel and business at the Ilos Research Facility.

As Liara walked through the Concourse, she could not help but notice the casual mingling of so many different peoples. Volus diplomats walked side by side with human merchants, krogan technicians chatted casually with quarian artists. In several days, the first batarian engineer would be joining their staff. The part of her that remembered the dreams of her companions from centuries ago smiled in contentment.

She nodded pleasantries to the those that bowed as she passed, and, still feeling self-conscious, retreated to the laboratory complex.

The labs were built around the same airy complex as the rest of the archive, renovations carefully built to retain the original structure. Although many of the vines and vegetation clogging the ventilation and blocking doors had been removed, new niches and soil allowed greenery to flourish in the underground chambers, sustained by the soft light from above. The Watcher's Chamber was almost exactly as she remembered from the very first time she saw it.

Registering her entrance, the interface came to life, Vigil's image projector long since repaired. He wasn't a true artificial intelligence, but he had the personality and memories of a scientist like herself. A scientist who had outlived everything he had ever known, sustained by his dedication to his purpose.

"Doctor T'Soni, it is good to see you."


End file.
